


Love makes lunatics

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Crowley doesn't want to put Aziraphale in danger, Crowley is a self-sacrificial idiot, Holy water shenanigans, M/M, This breaks Aziraphale's heart, ineffable husbands, unnamed demons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 20:23:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19216858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: “Why wouldn’t youtell me,Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice carries in the quiet expanse of Crowley’s flat, bouncing off the cold stone walls with the frantic energy of a sound wave fought with emotion. Emotion that drove Aziraphale half way across London to check up on his friend.“Because it doesn’t concern you, angel,” is Crowley’s response, as though that clears everything up, problem solved. Except it doesn’t and Aziraphale won’t stand for it.“Yes it does! If it concerns you, then it concerns me!”





	Love makes lunatics

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt from @didnt-survive-twist-and-shout :  
>  _i dont have any headcannons but i love your writing and was wondering if you could just do some random angst for good omens? Maybe the first time they met? Or the first time Aziraphale gets actually angry at Crowley? Maybe Crowley's first time feeling actual guilt by hurting Aziraphale? Do what you want with those. Anyhow, I do love your writing._
> 
> As always, I angst'd :D

“Why wouldn’t you _tell me,_ Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice carries in the quiet expanse of Crowley’s flat, bouncing off the cold stone walls with the frantic energy of a sound wave fought with emotion. Emotion that drove Aziraphale half way across London to check up on his friend.

“Because it doesn’t concern you, angel,” is Crowley’s response, as though that clears everything up, problem solved. Except it doesn’t and Aziraphale won’t stand for it.

“Yes it does! If it concerns you, then it concerns me!” Aziraphale exclaims, words heated even if his hands are not. As angry as he is with the demon, he won’t dare cause Crowley any further harm.

Never.

“What if they had  _destroyed_  you, Crowley? I’d be alone.”

The prospect of spending the rest of eternity on earth without Crowley… It doesn’t bear thinking about. Its the kind of possibility that Aziraphale has contemplated in the past, when their relationship has been rocky and they’d avoided each other for years at a time. He likes to feel like they’re past that point now.

What with saving the world and such.

“Bit of discorporating never hurt anybody,” Crowley replies, shrugging a shoulder that should not be shrugged and Aziraphale automatically places a hand on it, still the motion. “Besides, I’m still here, they’re not. The end.”

Aziraphale huffed out an annoyed breath.

“No, Crowley, it is not ‘the end’,” he says, carefully rotating Crowley’s shoulder until an audible pop is heard. Crowley doesn’t react even though Aziraphale is well aware that their forms are capable of registering pain. He doesn’t want to contemplate why a dislocated shoulder doesn’t register as painful to the demon—he already knows, really. “What if they come back? What if there are more of them? What if I’m not able to fix it?”

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, his eyes not hidden behind his sunglasses—they were somewhere in his flat, crushed and useless, another pair that’s bit then dust—full of emotion and vulnerable in ways the demon rarely allowed himself to be.

“It wasn't holy water, angel,” Crowley points out, “they believe I’m immune to that stuff.”

“You  _are_ ,” Aziraphale shoots at him, frowning. “Just as I am immune to hell fire. That doesn’t mean you ought to face hell alone.“

Crowley is silent, watching Aziraphale’s expression as the angel tends to his various injuries. For someone who rarely engaged in physical contact, Aziraphale’s hands are remarkably steady treating human injuries.

Although holy water can’t harm him, any sort of demonic or angelic weapon can still harm him. Its not fun and certainly not ideal, but Aziraphale understands the driving need Crowley has to not let Aziraphale come to any harm.

The broken admission in that pub during the end of the world when Crowley had stopped pretending… Aziraphale understood far too well that the demon couldn't handle losing him again.

Unfortunately, Crowley doesn’t seem to understand that Aziraphale feels exactly the same and to the exact same degree.

More perhaps, since he hadn’t been faced with the idea of Crowley’s death. Instead he’d experienced the terrifying possibility of being stuck in heaven and being forced to fight in a war he wished no part of. If Aziraphale had come across Crowley on the cosmic battlefield… If he’d lost Crowley on that battlefield…

Aziraphale can’t—he won’t—accept Crowley pushing him away because he wants to keep the angel safe. No.

_Absolutely not._

“You need to understand something, Crowley, and you are going to lie there until I am finished stitching this wound and explaining it to you,” Aziraphale begins, voice low and firm and  _unyielding_. The demon stares at him with wider eyes, trying his best to be inscrutable but Aziraphale knows him too well for it to worm. “You seem to be labouring under the illusion that your feelings for me far outweigh my own. That illusion is false. I’m not surprised at you for thinking such a thing—divinity knows that you have been through much on my behalf—but I am a little disappointed. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Angel—” Crowley struggles to sit up, ignoring completely the worried sounds Aziraphale makes, and he grasps onto the angel’s arms with tight fingers. “No, no its not—its not that, honest. I just—”

Words fail Crowley then. Words, the demon’s weapon of choice for millennia, fail him and Aziraphale smiles.

“I know,” he says, gently guiding Crowley back down on the sofa. “You've said it enough in your own way over six thousand years _—I know_.”

Crowley’s face relaxes a little from the worried frown it had turned into as he’d listened to Aziraphale talk. “Oh, well,” he says lamely and Aziraphale’s smile grows a little. More.

“Let me finish please,” Aziraphale requests, waiting for Crowley’s nod of agreement before he continues, hands working deftly at stitching the wound on Crowley’s side. “I don’t know what it felt like, seeing my shop burning and thinking I had burned along with it. I can’t imagine how you felt. But, Crowley, my dear Crowley, I was beyond terrified in heaven that the next time I saw you would be on the battlefield. That I would have to fight you, or, worse, watch you die by the hands of another angel. The very idea—it—there are no words to describe how it felt. How it  _still_  feels.”

The stitches were finished and Aziraphale stroked fingers over the wound, miracling the flesh into knitting itself back together. The wound would scar—there was no way to avoid that, not when it had been inflicted by a demonic blade—but Aziraphale could help the healing process along with little difficulty.

His fingers remain on the newly healed flesh, fingertips pressing ever so lightly on the slight ridge of tissue marking the scar that would never disappear. Aziraphale stares down at the scar.

“I wasn't quite aware of how much I had come to care for you until that moment,” he confesses quietly. “Love is something I know, and I knew I loved you, but the extent—it was beyond what I could ever imagine feeling even as an angel.” He looks up at Crowley’s face then, eyes bright with so, so much emotion. “And then today, I felt in my  _very soul_  that something was wrong and I find you—I find—Almighty above, I find you bleeding from a potentially lethal injury surrounded by holy water and looking far too peaceful for it to be anything other than a deliberate choice on your part!”

Aziraphale’s head drops to Crowley’s chest, pressing against the hot skin a few degrees too hot for human, and he listens to the strange thrum of the demon’s heartbeat.

“I—I’m sorry,” Crowley whispers and Aziraphale feels fingers brushing his hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m sorry, angel.”

Aziraphale let’s out a wet laugh. “I know,” he says, “that makes it worse.”

There’s nothing Crowley can say to that because it’s true. It makes it so, so much worse knowing that someone you love does something ever so reckless and they never mean to hurt you with it. Yet, Aziraphale forgives Crowley for it all, accepts its part of the demon to always be so reckless in the name of love.

For Aziraphale has no doubt that Crowley made a choice to take down his attackers no matter what because they threatened Aziraphale. Its precisely the sort of thing Crowley is prone to doing.

And the angel loves him as much as he is furious with him for it all. Because truly, Aziraphale is no better. He would do the exact same.

Love makes lunatics of everyone, angels and demons included.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments sustain me :)


End file.
